


Homesick

by OnMyShore



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 19:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnMyShore/pseuds/OnMyShore
Summary: “When we leave, do you think we’re going to forget? Like we did the last time?”Beverly takes a moment to consider it. “I don’t know. I think the only reason we forgot last time was because It wanted us to, but now that It’s gone...I don’t know, Richie.” A pause. “Would you want to?”“No.” His response is immediate, despite the horrors of the past two days (the past 27 years), but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Bev tilts her head at him and waits, until he says, softly, “I don’t want to leave him behind again.”Beverly’s hand squeezes, and he tightens his in return, turning away and swiping at his face with his free arm.“Then you won’t,” she tells him, simple as that.





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended to write a fix-it fic to deal with all my Feelings after watching Chapter 2, but then I sat down at my notebook and this fell out instead. Apologies to all involved. These boys deserve better from everyone, including me.
> 
> Unbetaed, but I proofread the hell out of it, if that helps.

_ “Grew up believing love was a grudge/And home was a place where you lived with your guard up” _

_ -”Long Distance Runner,” Matt Nathanson _

Richie would have spent the night tossing and turning in his crappy hotel bed if he’d ever made it that far.

He’d watched the rest of the Losers separate into their individual rooms as he fumbled with the keys to his own, but he’d caught sight of the door to Eddie’s room across the hall and barely made it inside his own before throwing up into the sink in his closet-sized bathroom. He’s puked more times in the past 36 hours than he has in the past 27 years (minus a bender or three back in his 20’s). Derry had hit him like a virus.

He’d peeled off his clothes, rank with sweat and gray water and too much blood that wasn’t his, and crawled into the shower, where he’d sat in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees until the water ran cold. Redressed haphazardly and considered the dirty clothes still heaped on the bathroom floor before opening the window and tossing them out into the alley below.

He’d meant to get into bed, overcome with exhaustion and grief, but he could still taste the bitter spike of adrenaline in the back of his throat when he swallowed, and he’d collapsed into a lumpy armchair next to the window where he’d spent the night watching for shadows in the alleyway.

The sky is beginning to lighten now, faint streaks of pink suggesting that the sun is going to rise soon. Richie scrubs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew as he sits up with a groan. He hears something pop in his spine, making him wince, and he’s not sure if if a product of age or a leftover from yesterday’s fight. He needs a shave, hates the way the stubble grates against the palm of his hand, but he’s pretty sure if he stays in this sad room one minute longer he’s going to lose what’s left of his mind. Hours of sitting and staring into the dark, with nothing to distract him from his own thoughts, have made him twitchy, and he’s overcome with the urge to walk somewhere, anywhere, cross the bridge that takes him out of Derry and then just keep going until he can’t anymore.

He makes it as far as the front door to the Derry Townhouse and sees that he’s not alone. Beverly is sitting at the bottom of the steps, long legs folded to her chest as she smokes a cigarette. Judging by the length, she hasn’t been out there long. (Maybe, like Richie, she was waiting for the dark to recede before she ventured outside. Old habits die hard, especially in Derry.) She jumps slightly when Richie comes up behind her but relaxes when she sees it’s just him, shifting to the side in an invitation to sit.

The air is cool, with the promise of warmth to come. Maine in late summer. Richie’s grateful for the smoke curling around them, a distraction from the assault of memories they’ve all been facing since they were dragged back.

“Guess you needed some air, too?” Richie says, just to fill the silence. Bev gestures with the hand holding the cigarette.

“No smoking allowed inside.” She raises her eyebrows and takes another drag.

“Could’ve just disabled the alarm like I did.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

Bev gives him a quick smile, and Richie waits for her to blow out another plume of smoke before he adds, “Probably don’t want to wake up Ben, either, right?”

Beverly tenses next to him, like she’s waiting for the punchline, and normally Richie would oblige but he knows it would only come out mean and bitter, and Beverly doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of it even if she gets to have the happy ending instead of him. Instead, he looks at her sideways with a ghost of a smile and says, “It’s good, Bev. It’s really good.”

“Shut up,” Bev says, blushing like they’re thirteen again, but Richie feels her relax next to him. She pushes a hand through her hair; two of her fingernails are broken, ragged edges catching in the strands. “Know any good divorce lawyers?”

“Shit, you’re married, that’s right. I totally forgot.”

“Yeah, to an _ asshole _.” Another drag, sharp exhale. “And that’s over now. It was over as soon as I left, but I wasn’t sure if…”

If we’d make it back alive, Richie doesn’t finish for her, remembering the feel of an empty glass in shaking hands.

“Anyway. I knew I wouldn’t be going back to him one way or the other. All that’s left now is the fucking paperwork.” Bev shakes her head. “It feels funny to think about it, doesn’t it?”

“About what?”

“What comes next. All the regular, everyday shit.”

“Sure, like your normal, mundane, run-of-the-mill divorce proceedings. Happens to me all the time.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” she says, because he’s obviously shitting on whatever point she’s trying to make, but she bumps her knee against his like she wants him to know she’s not mad. “I mean it feels funny to think about what comes next, doesn’t it? Yesterday it felt like the world was ending, and now we’re just supposed to, what, go back to normal? How are we supposed to do that?” The ash on her cigarette has grown precariously long, and she leans forward to tap it onto the sidewalk.

Richie shrugs, because who says the world hadn’t ended yesterday? “I sat up all night and couldn’t even think past this morning, let alone next week, so you’re asking the wrong guy.”

“You didn’t sleep at all?” Beverly’s voice is a cocktail of sympathy and concern, gentle in a way that rubs against Richie like sandpaper. Bev’s empathy is one of the best things about her, and it’s the last thing Richie thinks he can stomach right now.

“Couldn’t do it,” Richie says when he’s reasonably certain he can keep his voice steady. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it, you know?” Beverly is nodding, but Richie’s still talking. “Everything that happened yesterday, and before, and you guys and all the crazy shit we saw.”

“And Eddie?” Beverly’s voice cuts through his ramble and brings his own to a halt. Richie feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, which doesn’t even make any _ fucking _sense because they’re sitting outside. His lungs burn with the effort of just pulling in enough oxygen to keep him from faceplanting onto the concrete.

“I loved him, Bev.” The words spill out before he can stop them, and he pushes a fist to his mouth as if he could shove them back in.

“We all did,” Beverly says, moving closer, but Richie is shaking his head because it’s wrong, and he wants to tell her why it’s wrong but the words that came so easily just a _ second _before stick in his throat now. After everything they went through together, Richie should be able to look his friends in the eye and tell them the truth, only the truth still feels a poison running through his veins, threatening to ruin everything he touches, and it’s been a long time since Richie’s believed in God but he still can’t shake the conviction that he’s going to Hell. (But then, in his nightmares Hell has always looked a lot like Derry, and if that’s the case maybe he’s already there, because a piece of himself is always going to be buried beneath Neibolt Street.)

“It’s different,” he manages to say, and Beverly surprises him with a simple, “I know.”

That familiar panic is starting to build in his chest, and something of it must show on his face because Beverly puts a hand on his arm and says, “Hey, it’s okay.”

Richie stares at her hand, afraid to look up and see revulsion in her eyes, but he realizes she hasn’t moved away yet, that she’s still holding his arm and tracing circles through his sleeve with her thumb. Richie forces in a breath that comes out as a soft huff of a laugh. “Guess I kind of showed my hand at the end there, didn’t I?”

“Just a little,” Bev agrees. She leaves her hand where it is and Richie’s grateful for the contact. Maybe it makes him braver than he feels, because he says, “I’d probably still be there if you guys hadn’t pulled me out.”

“For a second I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to,” Bev admits, fingers tightening around him.

“I just didn’t want to leave him there by himself,” Richie says quietly. His eyes are starting to burn, and it sucks because he’s so fucking _sick_ of crying. “He should’ve had someone with him. He deserved that, at least.”

“You would’ve died if you’d stayed behind.” When Richie doesn’t respond, Bev says, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, I did.” Beverly goes still next to him. “In that moment? Yeah, Bev, I kind of did.”

“And now?” She takes another drag on the cigarette, now nearly burned down to her fingertips, but her eyes are still trained on his face.

“Now?” Richie stares at the curls of smoke dissipating into the air because it’s easier than looking at Beverly straight-on. “Now I’m not sure.” Beverly looks like she’s about to speak, to argue, but Richie cuts her off before she gets a chance. “I don’t mean I’m actively trying to-I mean, I didn’t come out here to off myself or anything like that.”

“Jesus, Rich,” Beverly mutters.

“I just don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with myself now. You know? Like what you said about what comes next? I can’t picture it, Bev. It’s just a blank spot.”

Beverly doesn’t say anything at first, but she shifts her arm so that it’s wrapped around his own and leans her head against his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” she murmurs.

Richie huffs a breath in disbelief. “Of course it is.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He didn’t want to go down there. You saw it. He was scared, and he wanted to leave, and I talked him out of it.” Richie can still hear the panic in Eddie’s voice, see the glisten of unshed tears in the dark. The memory eats at him like a cancer. “Maybe he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

“Or maybe we’d all be dead.” Beverly tightens her grip. “You can’t blame yourself, Richie.”

“Sure I can. I’m doing it right now.”

“Well, stop.” She nudges an elbow into his ribs and he leans his head against hers in response and closes his eyes. They sit like that, in silence, but it’s the good kind of silence, warm and companionable. It’s not enough to chase away the guilt - nothing ever will be, that much he’s sure of - but for once all the noise in his head has receded to a dull roar. It’s not much of a victory, but it’s more than he deserves, so he’ll take what he can get.

Finally, with a small sigh, Beverly gives his arm one more squeeze and disentangles herself, taking one final pull of nicotine and crushing the stub against the sidewalk.

“That’s littering,” Richie tells her, and she shrugs.

“Call the cops.” She stands. “I should head back in.” She sounds apologetic, but Richie just nods. He’s not quite ready to go back inside yet, not quite ready to face the rest of the group and wonder if they’ve pieced everything together like Bev has. Their short conversation has left him feeling raw and exposed; he needs some time to pull himself together. Maybe he’ll take that walk after all.

“Give Ben my love,” he tells her with as much of a leer as he can muster, and Beverly rolls her eyes even though she’s biting back a smile. As she’s moving past him up the stairs, Richie reaches out suddenly and grabs her hand. “Hey, Bev?”

“Yeah, Rich?” Her fingers are cool in his. He swallows.

“When we leave, do you think we’re going to forget? Like we did the last time?”

Beverly takes a moment to consider it. “I don’t know. I think the only reason we forgot last time was because It wanted us to, but now that It’s gone...I don’t know, Richie.” A pause. “Would you want to?”

“No.” His response is immediate, despite the horrors of the past two days (the past 27 years), but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Bev tilts her head at him and waits, until he says, softly, “I don’t want to leave him behind again.”

Beverly’s hand squeezes, and he tightens his in return, turning away and swiping at his face with his free arm.

“Then you won’t,” she tells him, simple as that.

“How do you know?” The words come out in a choked whisper.

Beverly hums a little bit in thought. “I guess it’s just a feeling I have.”

She squeezes his hand one more time before gently pulling away. Richie listens to her soft footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the door opening and the quiet thud as it shuts behind her, leaving Richie alone outside. For the first time since he sat down, he notices the sound of birds coming from the trees lining the street, the rising sun just starting to hit the leaves at the very top.

Derry is finally waking up.


End file.
